


Oh, Better Far to Live and Discorporate

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Aziraphale has a rescue fetish (Good Omens), Aziraphale is the world's best dressed and most polite pirate, Crowley has a rescuing fetish (Good Omens), Crowley has a thing for Aziraphale in stockings, Crowley has a thing for manacles, Crowley is besotted (Good Omens), First Time, Handcuffed Together, Historical References, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Locked In, M/M, Or at least someone is going to go down on this pirate ship by the end of the fic, Performance Reviews, Pirate's Code (Historical), Pirates, Protective Crowley, Slash, Surprise background ship, The Arrangement (Good Omens), This is pre-Bastille by the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: He lifted his head and watched Aziraphale, urging his men to battle, all pretty words that they hung onto like he was a general or prophet. He really was a pirate captain. It was absurd. That was the kind of thing a demon should do, not an angel. It wasn’t like Crowley had asked Aziraphale to be a pirate as part of the Arrangement.Stupid angel. If he was planning to Fall, he should have had the common courtesy to ask Crowley's help in arranging it. He could think of plenty of better ways to sin than piracy.Crowley waited until Aziraphale stepped close, back to him. As soon as he was close enough Crowley reared up into human shape, leaned seductively against his back, put his hands over Aziraphale's eyes and breathed “Guess who, angel?"****The idea of Aziraphale being a Pirate Captain is so patently nonsensical that Crowley has no choice but to stowaway on his ship. Which is precisely how Crowley ends up in the brig of a pirate ship, manacled to an angel who is wearing a distracting amount of velvet, lace and silk stockings.





	1. When I Sally Forth to Seek My Prey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Just_Lola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Lola/gifts).
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very idea of Aziraphale as a pirate is absurd. Also, he's clearly enjoying himself too much without Crowley.

####  1720, Mousehole, Cornwall

Crowley approved of gin. It was one of the many ways that Cornwall had improved recently in terms of temptation and trouble making opportunities. Besides, it was delicious and potent. Maybe he should slither over to Holland again; it had been a while, and any country that produced this stuff was worth visiting.

Or maybe he just really, in his secret heart, didn’t want to carry out his present assignment. The parchment crackled uncomfortably where it was tucked in his currently curvier than usual bosom, and he tossed his drink down his throat, signalling for more. He wished his contacts would hurry up so he could get out of this damned fishing village, mischief done. It was an awfully pretty place to use to tempt to murder.

He didn’t mind at all encouraging smuggling, but encouraging the natives to run ships aground was a little beyond the pale in his opinion, whatever the effect on the souls of the otherwise innocent fishing folk. It would be a real pity, Crowley thought hard at the universe, if there was a convenient angel around who could _miraculously_ prevent any sailors being drowned or smashed up in the wreck.

That, was, of course, the only motive for wishing the angel around. It wasn’t as if it had been decades since he saw Aziraphale, or that he cared. They had gone _centuries_ without seeing each other in the old days. It was only in the last seven centuries or so, since the Arrangement, that he had become used to seeing him several times a year, to look for him in crowds, reach out his mind and feel the touch of Grace against it. He had stopped thinking about it much, stopped feeling worried or guilty for wanting the presence of the Enemy around him, hoarding in his heart little memories of a pleased lift in a voice at his presence, a smile, anxious pleasure at seeing him.

No one was ever pleased to see a demon, not once they knew what he was. Even humans who summoned them were defensive and terrified, if they had any sense at all, although summoning a demon rather argued against that. Other demons tended to be less than enraptured by Crowley's presence. Only Aziraphale saw him as an equal and still lit up with delight, even if he often then retreated into guilty denial. The denial, too, was sweet.

After all, wasn’t it Crowley's job to tempt?

_Come on, angel, my own particular angel. I need you._

An answering touch of Grace pressed against his mind, He grinned, his heart, such as it was, lightened, and he drained his drink. Should’ve known Aziraphale would be close by when he really needed him. He’d given up wondering if it was the Almighty playing games, or Crowley's own powers acting beyond his will, but he always found the angel—or the angel found him. He turned to the door of the tavern, then blinked through his tinted spectacles at the impression of a sudden stream of light into the room.

Aziraphale gleamed in white and gold in a way Crowley hadn’t seen for centuries. He swept his hat off, and Crowley noted that there was no powdered wig for Airaphale, whatever the fashion among the higher-ups. Still, he had grown his silver-blond curls longer than Crowley remembered ever seeing them, and they were tied neatly back from a face burned browner than the demon had seen on him for a long time. A pure white velvet coat, frogged in gold, swept his knees and—oh, Satan below, his shapely calves were encased in the finest silk stockings. His ethereal lustre gleamed in the dark tavern like a moonbeam splitting through thunderclouds

Crowley was completely unprepared. He had become used to seeing Aziraphale as a human-like figure, attractive, certainly—oh, yes, attractive enough to spend far too many idle hours thinking about his rounded arms and inviting soft chest and broad thighs and what Crowley would like to do to them—but no longer impressive, no longer _angelic_, inhabiting his human body far better than his Adversary really managed his, still stuck too much as a snake and a demon as he was. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale glorious with light like this since the early days when his white wings spread out in the sun. Aziraphale was blazing like the heavens.

It was incredibly irritating.

Crowley was about to go over to him and demand what he thought of turning up in a Cornish fishing village looking like a sugar paste sculpture when the woman at the next table grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

“Be careful of those English ones,” she said in Cornish. “Pirates."

Crowley’s lips quirked. “Pirates? You must be mistaken. Look at that one, pure as the driven snow.” Certainly, the men around Aziraphale looked a little rougher than one might expect, although they deferred to him courteously, but some ideas were ridiculous. He had probably just had an attack of common sense and decided that bodyguards were a good idea if he was dressing like a spoiled aristocrat away from whatever humble manor he lived in now.

“The White Robin Hood of the Sea. Captured thirty ships this year alone, they say."

“Oh, that’s ridic…” Crowley’s voice trailed off. Aziraphale had taken a seat, and his coat fell aside to reveal a pair of duelling pistols and a sword at his side. Crowley could do basic mathematics. The bloody angel was carrying four pistols. _Four_. Did he intend to hold one in each wing? “Tell me more,” Crowley hissed, turning so that his back was to Aziraphale.

It’s not like Aziraphale was actually looking for him or knew that he was there. It wasn't like he would reach out looking for Crowley's aura the way Crowley habitually reached for his. Why would an angel seek out a demon, anyway? He seemed perfectly content with his role as—whatever he was. A folktale hero pirate. Oh, Crowley was going to _get_ him for this.

His mission could wait.

* * *

It really wasn’t hard to sneak onboard a ship, not when you could turn into a snake. Crowley waited some hours curled behind a chest, waiting for the most embarrassing moment to reveal himself. The ship moved out to sea. Aziraphale was below deck, and Crowley was bored. Hours—days. He wasn’t sure. Maybe he had been discorporating from boredom for _years._ He went to sleep, waiting until he could feel the aura of Grace move closer and rouse him from the nap, like a celestial bell ringer.

A shout from the crow’s nest roused him at last, and he felt Aziraphale moving closer. He lifted his head and watched Aziraphale, urging his men to battle, all pretty words that they hung onto like he was a general or prophet. He really _was_ a pirate captain. It was absurd. That was the kind of thing a demon should do, not an angel. It wasn’t like Crowley had _asked_ Aziraphale to be a pirate as part of the Arrangement.

Stupid angel. If he was planning to Fall, he should have had the common courtesy to ask Crowley's help in arranging it. He could think of plenty of better ways to sin than piracy.

Crowley waited until Aziraphale stepped close, back to him. As soon as he was close enough Crowley reared up into human shape, leaned seductively against his back, put his hands over Aziraphale's eyes and breathed “Guess who, angel?"

Stinging spread through Crowley's palms and fingers, and he gasped in pain. Hands took his shoulders, and he turned, hissing weakly, but his consciousness was already fading, knocked out by the agony in his hands.

* * *

When Crowley struggled back from his faint, pain still flickering up his arm, he was conscious of Aziraphale’s voice raised in some distress. For a moment he fantasised his head was cradled on solid thighs, hands stroking his long hair, a worried voice begging him to be alive, apologising desperately for having hurt him. Maybe a few declarations of love. That would be pleasant. He would tease Aziraphale, of course, but then he would condescend to offer a forgiving kiss, and...

No. Crowley's head was flat against wood, and the angelic voice was querulous, not sympathetic. When Crowley reluctantly abandoned the fantasy and opened his eyes, all he could see was feet, Aziraphale’s beautiful white leather shoes turned away from him. There was an iron manacle around one silk stockinged ankle and a chain, and now Crowley was fully conscious he was aware that there was cold iron around one of his own ankles. No sunshine, no wind.

Oh, Satan. They were chained together in the brig.

“Charlie, is this really necessary?” Aziraphale was demanding.

“Sorry, Captain. But she seems to know you and think you expected her to be on board."

“I have positively no idea who this strange woman is."

_Right_, Crowley thought. _It’s on._ First Aziraphale _blessed_ his damned hand, then denied him.

“You know it’s against the Ship's Articles to sneak a lady or boy on board. All rules applied fairly regardless of rank, you said. They apply to you as much as to anyone, you said. We’ll have a trial of sorts, and I really hope we don’t have to dismember or kill you, because on my oath you’ve been a wonderful Captain."

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said kindly. “It’s an honour to have you as First Mate. Don’t distress yourself unduly, I’m sure this little misunderstanding will be cleared up soon."

“That’s very kind of you, Captain. I hope you don’t mind being here in the meantime."

“Oh, I do hope the attack and boarding go well without me,” Aziraphale fretted. "Sorry to cause such inconvenience."

“That’s quite all right, Captain. Two men more or less won’t make any difference. Think of last time, they had three times as many men as we and they barely waved their weapons around a bit before surrendering."

Crowley had enough. He pushed himself to a sitting position. “What the _fuck_ is going on here? Have I lost my mind?"

“Madam!” the young pirate gasped, shocked. “Such language!"

“Really, young woman.” Aziraphale frowned at Crowley. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble today without adding obscenity to your sins?"

Crowley cradled his stinging hand and glared at him. “Why was I assaulted?"

“Ship's Articles, Madam,” Charlie said helpfully. He was a muscular boy of twenty or so, long dark hair in curls over his shoulders, darker skin. “Pirate’s code. No man is to seduce a woman or boy and carry them off to sea."

“Then why am _I_ locked up? Aren’t I the innocent victim here?"

“To protect your virtue, Madam. I’ve been nominated to stand sentinel to see that you’re not molested by anyone,” he said proudly.

“You’ve chained me to my vile and immoral seducer to protect me?” Crowley fluttered a sideways glance at Aziraphale who huffed, clearly offended.

“I’ve got a pistol, Madam,” Charlie said reassuringly. "Besides, Captain would do you no wrong against your will. He’s always very respectful to the ladies."

Crowley made a decision. “I’m no lady, boy.” He rose fairly unsteadily to his feet, pushing himself up on Aziraphale’s shoulder, feeling the silk velvet of his clothes under his touch, the warmth under it. Flatten the bosom, narrow the hips, change configuration down there. Done.

“Well, I’m sure you’re a nice woman, even if you’ve made some mistakes in your life.” The First Mate blushed.

“No, no, I don’t claim to virtue. I mean, I’m not a _lady_.” Crowley pulled his shirt out from his skirt.

“You can’t tempt me like that, vixen!” yelped the pirate, squeezing his eyes shut.

“For heaven's sake, dear boy, just look,” Aziraphale said, sounding amused. “Captain’s order. It’s not anything you haven’t seen before."

The pirate risked a peek, and then relaxed. “_Oh_. You’re not—Captain, did you sneak a _boy_ on board?"

“Certainly not!"

“Do I _look_ like a boy, kid?” Crowley tucked his shirt in again.

“N—no. You look old enough to be my father. But why were you dressed like that?"

“I was escaping prison, and I disguised myself as a woman to evade detection."

“Oh!” Charlie cheered up. “I can see that, happens all the time. You weren’t very convincing, now I come to think about it. Too plain and ginger and flat-chested. If the Captain _did_ have a lady friend, she’d be a lot younger and more comely than you. With fewer freckles."

Crowley tried not to catch Aziraphale’s eye. It took a moment to steady his voice before he said, “I’m sure Robin Hood here is quite a catch, but I’m just an old friend. Although you wouldn’t know it.” He cradled his scalded hand against his chest and pouted reproachfully.

“I’m truly sorry, dear fellow, it’s just that I wasn’t prepared for being attacked by a strange demoness—I mean, I didn’t recognise you."

“Didn’t have to bless me,” he muttered.

“I _am_ sorry,” said Aziraphale, looking so agonised that Crowley—well, didn’t forgive him. Forgiveness was more what the Other Side did. He just felt that he wanted to ease the deep lines been the surprisingly dark brows, because it was undignified for an immortal being, especially such a beautiful one, to look like that in front of a mere human.

“Captain, you shouldn’t call a lady a demoness. You always tell us courtesy is important for pirates,” frowned Charlie, who looked like he could crack an oaken ale barrel with his knuckles.

“_I’m not a lady._ Can we stop going in circles? Look, lad, any idiot could see my virtue is in no danger from your Captain.” He repressed a scowl at the thought. "Will you let us out? I’m sure I could help you in the attack.”

“Certainly not,” snapped Aziraphale. “I don’t trust you to behave yourself in a boarding."

“Captain’s right. You haven’t been sworn in. Can’t risk you betraying us."

“Sworn in? Crowley stiffened. “Look, you don’t know what you’re asking, making a contract with me. You won't like the consequences at all."

“Really? Why?"

Crowley desperately sought for inspiration. “I’m a Friend. You know, a Quaker. No vows. You will just have to trust me."

Charlie looked pointedly at the lace at Crowley’s wrists and the ribbons on his bodice and apron and laughed scornfully. “Don’t worry, puppy. We’ll hold a pistol to your head if you like, and then you can say you signed under duress and never wanted to be a pirate if you come to trial. We do it all the time, don’t we, Captain?"

“I _can’t_ sign anything."

“Make a mark, then,” Charlie said kindly. “There’s no shame in not being able to write."

“Pay attention, you ssstupid man. I’m not agreeing to your ridiculousss articlesss.” He moved threateningly towards the door, putting all the slinking menace he could into his movement, skirts rustling around him like the wings of some nocturnal creature. Aziraphale yelped as the chain yanked him forward as well. “Unlock the manacles, and let us out."

“I already told you, I have a pistol."

Crowley had finally had enough. It was time to break his chains, blast the door open, blast this stubborn man with it, spread his wings and fly away, leaving Aziraphale to enjoy whatever mad Harlequinade he was playing and get back to his job. He turned to hiss something to that account at the angel and met storm grey eyes, wide and round.

Crowley froze, helpless in the face of that gaze. Aziraphale’s lips formed a soft pout, golden lashes fluttering over those pleading eyes. Those _trusting_ eyes. Aziraphale was clearly not having the time of his life at all as a pirate king, he was in some kind of trouble, trapped and helpless and needing a saviour, and _bless_ it Crowley was going to have to stay on this stupid pirate ship after all.

* * *

**Notes in the main text so they won’t appear under every sodding chapter:**

1) A much-delayed gift for **Just_Lola**. I have fallen down a rabbit hole of reading about surprisingly nice, chivalrous and merciful pirates. Aziraphale's persona is loosely based on Black Sam Bellamy, of the exquisite clothes and exquisite manners.

2) Yes, Mousehole, as well as being super pretty, is near Penzance. Yes, I was tempted to put Aziraphale in purple pants shut up shut up shut up. I'm just taking all the titles from a certain piratical operetta instead.  
  



	2. A well-bred monarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some say that pirates steal and should be feared and hated  
I say we're victims of bad press that's all exaggerated  
We never stab you in the back, we never lie or cheat  
We're just, in fact, the nicest guys you ever want to meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing summaries so yes, I did just use lyrics from _Muppet Treasure Island._

Crowley knew his job and he was, more or less, good at it, even if he tended to rely on humans to do it for him as much as possible. Prod, annoy, incite, and above all, _tempt_.

"All right. These articles. Let me have them." He gave his slowest, snakiest smile, teeth bared. "Do think of what you are doing, though. Deals with the Devil are unbreakable."

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows disapprovingly, and Crowley shrugged slightly, hoping that was enough to indicate that he hadn't changed his mind about any demonic contracts. He was Underduke Dagon's underling, after all, and Dagon's underlings knew to regard paperwork with a terror usually reserved for a good exorcism.

"Everyone gets an equal vote," Charlie said, proudly. "The Captain is ever so democratic."

"That's completely crackbrained. What's the point of having a Captain at all, then?"

"He is our inspiration and leader. He is like a _father_ to us," Charlie said reproachfully, as Aziraphale gave a good impression of a portly sunbeam.

"Which is why he's currently manacled in the brig. Next?"

Charlie crinkled his eyes in concentration, and repeated: "Every man has equal title to the fresh provisions, or strong liquors, at any time seized, and may use them at pleasure."

"I suppose you seize a lot of ships that _just happen_ to be carrying excellent liquor and provisions, then?" Crowley glared at Aziraphale, who puffed his cheeks with offended innocence. "Drop the formal language, just give me the gist."

"If any man steals and defrauds another, we slit his ears and nose and maroon him," the pirate said with relish. "Not that anyone has, yet. Gotta keep our weapons cleaned and well looked after. Lights and candles out at eight at night so as we don't attract attention, and be quiet if we drink on the open deck after that. No meddling with prudent women, and no sneaking women or boys onto the ship, on pain of death." Aziraphale sighed at that, and Crowley mouthed _sorry_ at him. "No gaming for money, no fighting on board."

"What a very _virtuous_ lot of pirates you are. Almost angelic." He and Aziraphale glared at each other. "What else? There has to be a catch."

"No deserting, and no talking of breaking up our way of living until we have a thousand pounds each."

And there it was, Crowley supposed. If Aziraphale had sworn to that, angelic contracts were as binding as demonic ones. From the wrinkled-browed anguish Aziraphale was currently turning on him, it seemed likely. But--it didn't make sense. Surely the White Robin Hood of the sea had made thousands of pounds already.

"If I sign it, do I get your souls in return?" An old-fashioned deal, but perhaps, if Aziraphale was reverting to Robin Hood, Crowley could revert to an even earlier kind of demon. And well, rules were rules. He couldn't actually pass up the chance to sign some souls over to his Lord. Still, Crowley made his smile as unpleasant, hoping to scare the human out of it.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale said firmly. "The very thought. As if I'd let my charges blemish their immortal souls."

"Load of pirates, your worthless souls probably all belong to Hell anyway," Crowley said, his nasty smile intensifying.

"There's no need to be discourteous," said Aziraphale. "Charlie, my dear fellow, leave Crowley with me. I'll talk some sense into him. I'm afraid he finds your presence somewhat provocative under the circumstances."

"You don't want to miss out on all that looting," Crowley said silkily. "Of course, I know everyone will do the right thing, and share and share alike readily." He reached out with his powers, touched gently, feeling his eyes grow wide and more golden under his glasses. Never push, never force. Coercion was useless anyway in matters of free will. Better to use his power to lightly encourage a human heart to open up like a flower, revealing the doubts and desires already nestled there like drops of nectar, and see if their mind would choose to sip from them.

Aziraphale shifted uneasily next to him, feeling the surge of demonic power.

"I should help them," Charlie said. "Every man can count in a battle."

"Clever lad," Crowley said. "I'm sure your stout Captain can overpower a reedlike thing like me if it comes to the point, even if I intended harm to him, which--" He gave Aziraphale a sidelong glance worthy of the angel himself, although it was lost under his dark glasses--"I most decidedly do not."

"Thin as a snake, you are," agreed the pirate, with what Crowley thought was great intuition. "Captain--"

"Yes, yes, my boy, I'll be fine. Until you come back and execute me, that is," Aziraphale added a touch huffily.

"Now, now, hopefully it won't come to that. Well, if you're sure, Captain."

"Hurry along, Charlie," Aziraphale said kindly.

Charlie ducked his head respectfully, and scampered off.

"I really wish you wouldn't use your powers to tempt in front of me," Aziraphale said plaintively. "And my own man, too. It's in very poor taste."

"In what sense is he your own man?" Crowley asked, sharp and suspicious despite himself, remembering Charlie's knotted muscles under his deep brown skin and silky cushioning layer of fat. Built on the heroic scale, which Crowley's corporeal form admittedly was not. Aziraphale had always admired wrestlers and gladiators and stone-lifters far too much for Crowley's comfort, given he was not entirely sure the appreciation of their burly forms was purely aesthetic. The pirate was young and comely. And as yet untainted by Hell, because for all Crowley had suggested about piratical souls, Charlie seemed almost entirely untouched by the stench of brimstone.

Just a mortal. No threat. Dead soon. Remember that.

"In the sense that he is part of my crew," Aziraphale said steadily. There was something in his expression that Crowley felt he would give anything to read. For all Aziraphale gave the impression of wearing his heart on his lacy sleeve, he was unfathomable when it really counted.

"Yes. Having a pirate crew is something you still need to explain, angel." Despite himself, Crowley's lips quirked with amusement. "Or should I say Robin?"

"Oh, don't make fun." Aziraphale sighed, leaning against the wall. "Do you think--a small miracle--"

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a settee appeared. He was rather proud of it, the serpentine curves of the dark walnut legs and arms showing who had summoned it, but the rich white and gold tapestry upholstering and comfortable horsehair padding making it clear he had summoned it with his angel in mind. Aziraphale exhaled in appreciation, and Crowley found himself awkward, with too many limbs.

"Oh, _lovely_," Aziraphale said, lowering himself gratefully onto the settee, and Crowley's heart lurched quite tangibly at his pleasure, as if it had come loose in his chest. With their legs manacled together, it only made sense to sink down beside the angel. His skirts fell slightly over Aziraphale's silk-clad lap, as if they had met at an intimate social occasion rather than in the brig of a pirate ship, although Crowley's distinctly common skirts were an ill match to Aziraphale's silk and velvet.

Following teh thought, Crowley summoned a table and tea, in one of the new huge bell-shaped silver teapots rather than the tiny Chinese pots in which they had learned to love tea.

"_Wonderful,_" Aziraphale almost crooned, and, going a little mad on the power of pleasing his angel, Crowley recklessly followed it with golden seed cake, tiny orange-flower queen cakes adorned crystallised flowers, wine-curdled syllabub and preserved cherries. Aziraphale positively glowed. He could find a reason to excuse the lavish use of magic when he did his accounts.

Tempting an angel. Now, that was a guilty thought, and also oddly uncomfortable. After all, he was doing this because Aziraphale _deserved_ spoiling with delicacies, and after so many thousands of years it was no use even questioning that thought.

"I thought I would lose my mind with the food on these ships. Plenty of spices and sugar seized, naturally, but no one on board with the least idea of what to do with them. You really are," said Aziraphale, his eyes gleaming impishly at Crowley over his cup, "almost an angel."

"Mind your language," growled Crowley, trying not to grin. "Now, eat up while you explain to me what kind of laughable mess you got yourself into this time."

He picked up his own cup, inhaling the scent, and for a moment regretted that they were not both in London. He could take a female form, perhaps, and entertain guests for tea in his bedchamber, lolling in bed while Aziraphale, taking a female form also for once, wore rustling silks, and perhaps the other guests would leave and Aziraphale, all plump loveliness, would come sit on the bed to talk more closely and be hand-fed with bread and butter, and...

"Are you paying attention at _all_?" Aziraphale asked crossly.

Crowley snapped out of the daydream. "Have some syllabub and start over."

"Oh, you are imposs--" Aziraphale abruptly ceased to complain as Crowley pressed creamy whipped sweetness to the angel's lips. He accepted it quite meekly, in fact, and Crowley's heart made a good attempt to escape from his ribcage.

"Right," Aziraphale said, far less heatedly, the tip of his tongue removing some cream from his lips. "Well, it was all the silliest mistake. Gabriel wanted me to go do some business in Portugal, and I suppose the ship was boarded while I was distracted. I was knocked unconscious--and oh, my dear, I am so _sorry_\--and when I woke up, this nice gentleman was asking me not to gamble or molest women. I said _of course_, I promised wouldn't do anything of the kind. I wasn't thinking straight, you know, still quite muzzy. Next thing you know, I was sworn in as a _pirate_, of all things." He pouted, a fleck of cream still on his lower lip, and it wasn't _fair_, angels weren't supposed to tempt. "Couldn't leave until we all had a thousand pounds."

"Doesn't explain why you're Captain." Crowley bit into a slice of seed cake, rather harder than necessary, and chewed and swallowed almost ferociously. That blessed syllabub had been a mistake. His fangs kept wanting to pop out.

"Well, Captain Benjamin was a lovely gentleman, don't get me wrong, but he wouldn't attack English ships. So there was a vote, he left, and... here I am." Aziraphale picked up a dainty queen-cake and ate it, slowly and appreciatively, pleasure suffusing his face.

"Here you are." Crowley managed eventually. "And here I am. Chained to you. But surely a thousand pounds each isn't that hard to raise?" It was, he knew, a fabulous sum for humans, but surely not for a pirate as successful as Aziraphale seemed to be. "I get the impression that ships are only too eager to surrender to you."

"That's the problem," Aziraphale sighed. "The crews can't wait to be sworn in."

"You could say no?"

"No, I couldn't! These ships, Crowley. They are _dreadful_. The way they treat their crew! And some of them are _slave_ ships. How could I say no to them? The crews are almost as desperate to escape as the slaves! Every time I get close to a thousand pounds each, we seem to acquire a new ship." The joy from the cake had left Aziraphale. His eyes were swimming with pain and worry, and Crowley felt recklessly, stupidly, that he would do anything to make them bright with happiness again.

"How many ships do you have?" He popped a crystallised flower in Aziraphale's mouth, comforting with sugar.

Aziraphale chewed, and swallowed. "Twelve."

"_Twelve?_ Aziraphale, that's not a privateer group, that's a bloody _navy._ That's a threat to any vulnerable country, especially if you keep growing. There's no way a fleet isn't going to be sent to sink you all! And they won't be putting up a token resistance and surrendering, not if it's countries uniting to destroy you! How can you--how can you be so _stupid_?"

"I couldn't help it!" Aziraphale wailed. "You know I can 't abandon humans in trouble, not without direct orders. And I am stuck on this dreadful ship, and the _food_, Crowley, and the _responsibility_, and if Gabriel ever finds out I don't want to think about what he will say. I don't dare do miracles for fear of attracting his attention. I simply don't know what to do."

"Oh, _angel._" The raised eyebrows, the wrinkled brow, the flushed cheeks and sparkling round eyes... Crowley was lost. He raised his hand just for a moment, as if he could reach out and cup that sweet, desperate face and offer comfort by meeting it with his own kind of desperation, kiss away the anxiety, kiss him until he forgot all that concerned him and could only think of Crowley's mouth on his own, body pressed against his, tongue taking every lingering taste of cake and wine and cream and kissing down to the angel below.

Crazy, dangerous thought. Crazy forced it down. It wasn't his place to offer love to the enemy, as if an angel could ever accept a demon's desire. It was, however, his place to protect his only friend, Heaven and Hell be... damned, blessed, whatever.

"All right, angel. Let's get you out of this mess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Black Sam Bellamy, Prince of Pirates, Robin Hood of the Sea, stole the equivalent of $139 million USD in a single year. All while being polite and generous. 
> 
> 2) Seed cake is the single most delicious cake in the world. I recommend Mrs Beaton's Victorian version, but it's been around since the 16th century.
> 
> 3) Thank you to Queen Anne for popularising really big teapots.
> 
> 4) In jane_with_a_j's fic [Somewhere Down Below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299651), which is awesome fake seduction fic and you should all read by the way, Aziraphale is imprisoned and Crowley is kind enough to summon him a lovely comfy bed. This directly led to Crowley showing his flawless taste in William & Mary settees in this fic. Angels deserve comfort in their cells.


	3. Where pirates all are well-to-do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a first attempt at solving Aziraphale's little problem, and meets more of the piratical band.

There were footsteps on the ladder. Crowley clicked his fingers and the sofa and delicacies vanished.

"Good gracious!" Aziraphale landed unceremoniously on his shapely bottom. Crowley, not caught unaware, had sprung to his feet. He automatically snaked an arm around his back to prevent the angel from toppling over backwards.

"Sorry," he said a bit breathlessly, and they stared at each other a moment, Aziraphale sitting on the floor in all his finery, Crowley bent over him with his arm around him. Aziraphale's eyelashes lowered in confusion and then snapped up warily, and Crowley sprang back as if his arm was burning.

Unfortunately, Crowley had forgotten about the manacles. His arms batted the air for a moment before he tumbled backward, hitting his head sharply against the wooden floor. He closed his eyes against the sudden burst of pain.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale scrambled over to him. "You idiot demon, are you all right?"

Crowley opened his eyes. There were still sparks of pain, and he felt a little discombobulated. He was aware he was flat on his back, Aziraphale was on his hands and knees over him and looking tenderly, despite his tetchy words, into Crowley's face. All Crowley wanted to do was brand this perfect image into his brain to explore later, at leisure and in complete privacy.

"Hullo, Aziraphale," he said dreamily. "Have I told you how devastatingly attractive you look in white velvet? Makes your complexion glow like--ouch. You didn't have to pinch me!"

"You're just fine, clearly," snapped Aziraphale, sitting up, just before the figures of two pirates turned up outside the door. Crowley's head cleared enough to realise that he was lucky under the circumstances that they hadn't walked in on him lying on the floor with his skirts racked up around his knees and Aziraphale kneeling over him. Then shivered at the thought of what they would have looked like. Bless bless bless.

"Hello again, Charlie. Nice to see you're safe," Aziraphale said amiably. "Oh, and Crowley, let me introduce Ignatius, my quartermaster."

Crowley looked into Ignatius's sunburned face and cold grey eyes and felt a flicker of recognition. This wasn't some good-natured rescue from a ship he had been shanghaied into in the first place like Charlie. This was a man who had made his way into piracy as a murderous halfway house on his road to Hell.

"A pleasure," Crowley said, looking at the creature who was Aziraphale's second in command and resisting the urge to shift into serpent form to rear up protectively between them.

"Thought I should come," Ignatius said, his voice a rumble like muted thunder. "Seeing as enforcing the codes and punishments is my role and all."

"Very good, very good," said Aziraphale. "First, however, I would like your report on the raid."

"It went terrifically, Captain!" said the enthusiastic Charlie. "They fired two cannon shots, didn't go anywhere near us, and then they unconditionally surrendered."

"A rich haul, Captain," Ignatius said. "About twenty hundred guineas, if I'm not wrong."1

"And how many joined the crew?" Crowley asked.

Ignatius glared at him through sharp brown eyes, as if daring him to ask why he thought he could question them. The friendly Charlie, however, said, "All thirty of them agreed to sign the articles and fight for us! Isn't it marvellous?"

"I see. And how many pirates in your merry band?"

"About three hundred," sighed Aziraphale.

"No wonder they surrendered. Well, then. That would be..." Crowley calculated with a mind used to weighing up sins and souls. "Well, you would have made about seven pounds each from the attack. Assuming you're all halfway to your thousand pounds, though, you've lost about 45 pounds each on this attack. Well done."

"That's not quite right," objected Aziraphale. "What we've already earned, we keep. It's more that we've made about 6 guineas each instead of 7 pounds. Much more reasonable when you think of it that way."

"That's not the point. The point is that if you keep approaching things this way, and bearing in mind the need for supplies and port fees and things, you're never going to pay out your agreement, any of you. You'll be making a loss every time you stop for provisions--not that they seem to be provisioning you the way you deserve," he added, remembering the pirates and turning a nasty glare on them.

"Then what do you propose we do, Crowley?"

"Put them back on their bloody ship!"

"Oh, we can't. You don't know what will be done to them if it's found out they surrendered without a fight. It doesn't bear thinking about it. A fate worse than death.

"Then put them back on their bloody ship and sink it."

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Leave them to drown?"

Crowley made a frustrated growl. It was no good explaining to Aziraphale that while he didn't mean unknown humans any particular harm, demands of the job aside, all bets were off when it came to his angel's safety. Aziraphale came first. He _always_ came first.

"You didn't seem to care so much about people drowning in the old days," Crowley realised his mistake as soon as the words came out of his mouth, and would have done any miracle to snatch them back. Too late. Aziraphale's face was paling under its tan, and he was biting his lower lip, looking away.

"Angel, I didn't mean that. I know it wasn't your choice. Just policy."

"I have tried to make up for it in every way since then. For cent--years."

"I know." He kept his voice as gentle and caressing as he could, trying to come as close as he could to apologising without saying the words. "I know, angel."

"Would you," Charlie said in outrage, "kindly stop calling our dear Captain _angel_? You come onto our ship dressed like laced mutton, no doubt intending to seduce our Captain into unnamed depravities, throw into his face what he not doubt did under duress under a far less honourable Captain, and try to convince him to murder innocent sailors?"

"You're _pirates._" Crowley folded his arms in frustration.

"And what would happen if we did kill them all, eh?" Ignatius licked his lips. "Next lot are not going to surrender all nice and friendly then, are they? Going to fight to the death."

"It might solve your little problem."

"_Our_ deaths."

"Good. Get your stupid selves all killed, and maybe my friend can have his life back."

"Crowley, that's quite enough!" Aziraphale clambered to his feet, kept close by the manacles.

"It is indeed." Charlie's handsome face was even darker with anger. "Apologise."

"Go fuck yourself," said Crowley, who was sick of the entire conversation. Aziraphale was avoiding his gaze, and Crowley hadn't the chance a door-to-door sale-person in hell of soothing his ruffled wing feathers with pirates distracting him.

Charlie drew himself up. "I demand satisfaction, sir."

"Didn't I just tell you to give yourself satisfaction?"

"Really, all this won't be necessary," Aziraphale said hurriedly. "Charlie, calm down. Crowley, mind your language."

"On the shore," Charlie said stubbornly. "With pistols, followed if necessary by blades. Choose your second."

Crowley winked at him. "I won't need a second to kill you. Besides, the only person I know on this ship is your Captain, and I'm blessed if I'm letting him duel."

"I'm an excellent shot, and you know I'm good with a sword," Aziraphale said, sounding even more hurt.

"Aziraphale, do you actually want to shoot your crew? Fine by me. Or are you intending to let them shoot you to get out of this mess? If so, I might as well leave you to it right now."

"That's enough, Crowley!"

"Yes, that's quite enough," came Ignatius' gravelly voice. "Charlie, you will get your chance to settle this on land. Captain, I think we would be better off separating you from this... gentleman." His grey eyes swept contemptuously over Crowley's skirts and aprons. "At least until we get your little matter sorted out. He's a poor influence."

"No, really, it's quite all right," Aziraphale protested, giving Crowley an alarmed look. "I don't mind staying here. Surprisingly comfortable in here, in fact."

"It's a shame having you here in the brig, anyway. We'll confine you to your quarters while we get this all sorted out," Ignatius said. "You'll be far happier with your own bed and furniture, you know how you like your things. Charlie, cover me."

The door swung open and the quartermaster stepped inside. For a moment Crowley considered rushing him for the keys and dealing with Charlie's pistol with a minor miracle, but it wouldn't solve the angel's contract keeping Aziraphale on the ship, and Crowley had promised to get him out of trouble. Instead, he smiled at Ignatius with concentrated venom as the man unlocked the manacle around Aziraphale's ankle. If that thing had left a single bruise on Aziraphale's tender ankle. Crowley was going to make them all pay.

Aziraphale rubbed his ankle, wincing, and took Ignatius' proffered arm, coming gracefully to his feet. "Crowley, I'll be back when I can."

Ignatius sniffed but didn't argue. "Now, on your honour, Captain, go back to your quarters and wait inside, so I don't need to send Charlie to guard you. We'll be along to lock you in soonish."

"I give my word that I will go straight to my quarters and not leave until after I'm locked in," Aziraphale said docilely. "Crowley, I'll be back as soon as I can, and we'll get this silliness sorted out." He strolled out, and it was like all the sunshine had been drained, and all there was left was a cold, dark brig.

"Up," Ignatius said, and when Crowley delayed, kicked him in the ribs. "_Up_."

Crowley unfolded himself and flowed to his feet as if he was a boneless snake, still smiling as he registered that kick on his internal list.

"Quartermaster!" protested Charlie. "The Captain would never like us to harm a prisoner, let alone a friend of his."

"Oh, he's no true friend to our Robin Hood, boy. I know his kind well enough. Can sense the evil rattling in his skull."

"Like recognises like," Crowley said, so softly that Charlie would not be able to hear. "Hell knows our future children. Stay alive as long as you can, pirate, you won't enjoy the next world. And if you do a thing to hurt my friend, I will _personally_ make sure of it."

"Got tongues enough for two sets of teeth, haven't you?" Ignatius said sourly.

"Oh, you have no idea." Crowley flicked a forked tongue against the inside of his teeth, resisting the temptation to show it.

"Cover us, Charlie."

Crowley acquiesced readily enough to being manacled to the wall. It was not as if he couldn't escape at any time he chose. And, he found, he rather enjoyed having offences to count up against Ignatius. Had to have a target for all this anger.

He waited until they were gone, Charlie a little deflated. Then he waited some more. Aziraphale would have to wait to be locked in, as he gave his word, and then wait until he was sure he was alone.

There was a star-shine and sun-ray shimmer of light. Aziraphale, clad in white and gold, was standing a foot from him, all signs of irritation and hurt gone in a flood of concern.

"_Crowley._ They've chained you! The brutes! Are you all right?"

Crowley moistened his lips with his tongue. Aziraphale was so close, his soft chest rising and falling hard under all the velvet and frogging, and he was still wearing those breeches and, Satan help Crowley, those _stockings_. His lips were drawn up into a ridiculously kissable moue with concern, his eyes liquid under golden lashes. And Crowley was flattened against the wall, legs spread and manacled, arms chained above his head. To all appearances helpless. In skirts.

"More than all right. Oh, angel." Crowley had no choice. He had to let the words spill out, or choke on them. "You have no idea how often I've had this exact dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So I was weirdly blocked on this chapter. I had the start of the next chapter, with manacled Crowley, in place, and all I had to do was get him there. So yesterday when kid was playing on the playground I wrote out lots of notes on this chapter, sat down to write it and wrote a completely different thing, completely unblocked. HELLO IGNATIUS, I DIDN'T PLAN YOU. Strange the way the mind works. But it still ended up with Crowley in manacles.
> 
> 2) Speaking of which--it's up to just_lola, but the rating may well be bumped up quite a bit next chapter.


	4. To Play a Sanctimonious Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check the updated tags. :) Any guesses as to the surprise ship? It's showing its sails on the horizon.
> 
> But we will start where we left them, with Crowley admitting some of his most fervent desires to his oblivious angel.

“_What_ dream?” snapped Aziraphale. “Of challenging one of my favourite humans to duel? Because I must say you have quite an unfair advantage there, unless Charlie can learn smartish to bend time and physics.”

Crowley attempted to regain his leer. “No, of being chained to the wall in– well, it doesn’t have to be a pirate ship.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you detest humans imprisoning you. When you were pilloried for cursing pigs, you complained for _days_ about backache when you couldn’t really have been in there for more than twenty minutes. I sometimes wondered if I’d fallen without noticing and your whingeing was one of Dagon’s torments. Or if I should have left you there, demon binding circles and all.”

“It’s not just about the manacles, it’s about the company,” Crowley said, trying desperately to retain some kind of seductive atmosphere. “Although I usually imagine it the other way around.” He shivered at the familiar vision of his angel, plump chest heaving, round eyes pleading, distressed but with perfect faith and hope in his rescuer…

Aziraphale’s aggrieved expression deepened. “So you like to plot taking me prisoner and deliver me to Hell, you malevolent miscreant”

“Not at all!” Crowley protested, although he had an interesting and interested reaction to being called _malevolent miscreant_. He decided to file that away for future contemplation. “It’s more I dream upon happening upon you, captured by humans, helpless– and oh, in _stockings_ like yours, or maybe skirts like these, that would be great, too.”

“I don’t know what my stockings have to do with the matter. And what were you intending to do when you found me _helpless_? Gloat? Apply for a commendation?”

Crowley tried, through his mixture of deep embarrassment, fervour and awareness that what he was saying was not very demonic, to express what he would do. It came out as a strangled hiss.

Fortunately, over the millennia, Aziraphale had become quite good at interpreting serpent demon. “_Rescue_ me? Well, I’m touched,” he said, in a tetchy way that sounded anything but, “but why would that even be necessary?”

This conversation was not going quite the way Crowley had hoped. His ears were burning. “You might’ve lost your powers or, or something,” he muttered.

“Do you spend a _lot_ of time imagining me powerless and at your mercy?”

Oh, fuck it all, in for a penny. Crowley squeezed his eyes tight. “…esss.”

“I thought we had reached some kind of _understanding_. I thought we were friend– I mean, friendly adversaries.” Aziraphale was pouting.

“No, no, no, that’s not it, I would always let you go, honest.”

“And then I’d owe you. I would owe a demon a favour. My soul would be in danger.”

“You owe me favours all the time and it doesn’t bother you!” Crowley protested. “You _still_ haven’t paid me back for that business in Bohemia in 1533. Beelzebub was all over me wanting explanations, and you never even thanked me.” He’d had roseate visions of blushing cheeks and starry eyes and, when he really let his imagination get out of control, an angel rapturously flinging himself into his arms to express gratitude.

“A small taste of the apocalypse to warn people of the error of their ways, I said, Crowley. I meant a vision or two. Not four hundred dragons flying overhead.”

“It was a bloody good warning, you have to admit that.”

“It went on for _days_. The amount of memory erasing I had to do! At least their dung was good for the crops.”

Crowley’s mouth had formed into the sullen pout of the truly unappreciated who had gone above and beyond to impress their angel, who were chained to the wall on their behalf, and who were unjustly suspected of wanting to trick them when all they really wanted... All they wanted... His head and his libido abruptly dragged him away from the argument and back into his fantasies.

“The point isn’t bargaining, angel. You know I don’t get you involved in demonic contracts. The point is that you would be _grateful_.”

“And you’d take advantage of me?”

Aziraphale didn’t mean anything by that phrasing, Crowley knew. It was clear from the irritable set of Aziraphale’s mouth and the hands resting on those full hips that he wasn’t thinking of seduction. He was just thinking of their eternal pushing and pulling of power, their carefully maintained balance that couldn’t be allowed to tip too far one way or the other for fear of sending the whole seesaw toppling off its base.

Even knowing this, Crowley couldn’t help croaking: “Only if you wanted me to.”

“_What_?”

Crowley nearly lost speech altogether the expression on Aziraphale’s face. His cheeks were tinged with pink, true, but his mouth had parted gently, and a tip of a tongue was visible just for a second between his teeth as he took a step forward in those ridiculous shoes, as if he couldn’t help moving closer.

“Mm, mm, y’know,” he muttered. “If you wanted to. I’d imagine you might... might tip your face up and _look_ at me at the way you do, sometimes... like a swooning maiden who wanted to be kissed.”

“I’ve never swooned in my existence.” Aziraphale stepped forward again.

“Yeah… but you’ve got the lashes for it. And– and you’re a maiden, right?” Crowley asked, uncertainly. Aziraphale had seemed dreadfully concerned about Charlie.

“You’re the one in the petticoats,” said Aziraphale, which was no answer at all, but sent Crowley’s heart to his throat, especially since Aziraphale was moving awfully close now.

“Yeah, point. But… I like it when you look at me like that, all soft and shining, as if you realise… as if you appreciate…”

“Appreciate what?” It was breathed very near to Crowley’s mouth.

“Devotion.” And it was his face that tilted up, and Aziraphale’s mouth that came down to close the gap, and it was terrible being manacled, terrible and wonderful, because Crowley wanted to wind a hand in soft curls, wanted to wrap around a soft padded waist and pull close, wanted to press his face forward and deepen the kiss. He just had to stand there, pulling uselessly against the chains with hands that needed to reach out, hips pushing forward and failing to make contact as he was kissed tantalisingly lightly, almost chastely.

The only point of contact was their lips. Aziraphale held just apart from any other touch. He was so close Crowley’s senses were filled with the mingled scent of earthly human corporation and tea and brandy and cake and clean celestial purity. So close Crowley was sure he could feel the steady deep pounding of Aziraphale’s heart, the rush of blood through his body, and surely it was pooling low and hot like it was in his own. So close Crowley was convinced he could feel the warmth of that plush chest and those expensively clad thighs but not breach the heated space between them. It was the most frustrating and the most arousing thing he had ever felt.

Their lips parted. “Devotion?”

“Devotion to my angel,” Crowley whispered in the tiny space between their lips. He had given voice to it at last, that secret conviction that he would serve as needed, the weight and unknown consequences of it pressing hard on his shoulder. Even that weight would be light, so light if only Aziraphale would acknowledge something of the same, would even kiss him again.

For a moment, Crowley’s heart pounded in his chest at the thought that, return his feelings or not, Aziraphale would at least accept them. Accept him and his love and desire, even if he wouldn’t allow Crowley to act on it.

Instead Aziraphale, damn him, stepped away as if nothing had happened. “You need to stay here for the meantime, I’m afraid, dear. There will be awkward questions asked. We can sort things out after the duel, and I warn you, if you kill or maim any members of my crew, there will be Heaven to pay.”

“A–A–Aziraphale?” Crowley was practically spluttering with confusion and outrage.

“Don’t worry, dear boy. Perhaps a little miracle on the manacles, to make them less hard on your back?”

A little smile, a little wave, and then the bastard was gone.

* * *

Perhaps the kiss actually had been chaste rather than almost chaste, Crowley reasoned. Angels were above all that stuff, weren’t they? Or at least they had been for the last few millennia, after a few notable disasters. Perhaps it had been fondness, or gratitude–simple pure gratitude, that he could rely on Crowley rescuing him, in ways that it was dangerous to speak aloud. The appreciation he had asked for.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t exchanged chaste kisses before. They had tried to avoid that kind of thing, obviously. The spirit of keeping your enemies close could only be plausibly explained away so far. Still, there had been times and places in which speaking to someone without a hand-clasp or a nose-rub or a kiss would have drawn attention among the humans. Yes, maybe Crowley sometimes used the memories to stoke his passions when alone and frustrated, but in the main they had been mere politeness.

It had never felt until now that Aziraphale was kissing him _with intent_. They had never been alone, Crowley had never been held motionless after admitting his fantasies, and then declaring the Satan-damned _devotion_ which was far more shocking in a demon than lust.

And then Crowley had tried to thrust his hips forward and deepen the kiss and oh Satan, he couldn’t remember but he might have moaned. Or hissed, which was potentially worse. That wasn’t playfully seductive teasing that could be laughed off as a game of temptation, that was humiliating neediness.

Surely even Aziraphale wasn’t enough of a bastard to notice he was like that, smile and leave him in that state. Surely. Not to _smile_.

There was a blaze of angelic light. “So there you… are…”

He looked into a face he hadn’t seen for a very long time. Not since the hilarious fracas at Bethlehem in which he and Aziraphale had ended up getting drunk together in an otherwise empty inn while the unfortunate lady they were waiting for had her baby in the stable. He’d vanished pretty quick, while Aziraphale was left explaining to two very pissed-off archangels that he had just finished valiantly fighting off a demon who was thwarting the plan. Gabriel had not found the situation particularly funny, and poor Aziraphale had been put on minor blessing duty in China for ten years.

Crowley, a little remorseful when he sobered up and stopped laughing, had gone to keep Aziraphale company and… There had been no one to stop the mess with all the murdered babies. Crowley wondered, sometimes, how much of the mess with the inn had been their fault, and how much had been Heaven finding a reason to get Aziraphale out of the way before he had any mutinous thoughts about the divine plan.

“Gabriel,” Crowley said, trying to cover his panic with stoniness.

“The demon Crowley,” smiled Gabriel. “Well, this is better results than I expected. The Serpent of Eden, no less.”

At Gabriel’s side, an angel as stocky and as round as Aziraphale, but without the softness, smiled widely and coldly. “Allow me to introduce Sandalphon,” Gabriel said pleasantly. “He wasn’t in Heaven when you were cast out. Oh, is that a painful topic?”

“Hey, Sandalphon, Archangel of Music, aren’t you? Haven’t seen you since, when was it, Cardigan Castle in the twelfth century? You awarded me a chair. Don’t know if it was for my poetry or my legs, though. You certainly seemed to appreciate my poetry more when you were admiring my calves.”

The lie was worth it, for the suspicious look Gabriel was directing at Sandalphon, edging slightly away. So Aziraphale’s drunken gossip about their closeness was true…

“I did no such thing!” snapped Sandalphon. “I would have smelled if there was a demon competing.”

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale had warned Crowley in time that the rumored angelic presence at the bardic competition would not be as sympathetic to demons. Crowley had sent another bard to read his poetry in his place, with disappointing results. He had only entered in the first place because he assumed the angel attending would be _his_ angel and it would be a chance to declaim love poetry at him, with plausible deniability. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

“Oh, discorporation and never returning to Earth would be nice. I must say I’m impressed. Considering how our agent’s last surprise performance review went, capturing a demon and taking over his pirate fleet is impressive work.”

Crowley could see an out when he saw one. He spat, making Gabriel jump to avoid having his beautiful shoe contaminated by demonic bodily fluids. “A fucking angel? Commanding my ship? I’ll have to decontaminate the entire thing. Bad enough to have you bloody wankers here.”

It wasn’t hard to feel aggrieved. Aziraphale had failed to warn him he was in the middle of a performance review. Crowley should have realised from the level of the angel’s anxiety; performance reviews often went hand in hand with reproaches for not smiting enough. Aziraphale really did not enjoy smiting. So tiresome and unpleasant. Aziraphale should have _told_ Crowley.

Maybe Aziraphale would have, Crowley thought guiltily, if he hadn’t been distracted by tea, delicacies, duel challenges and seduction attempts.

“I wonder why our agent hasn’t discorporated him yet?” Sandalphon asked, his voice drawn out long and suspiciously.

“Now, now.” Gabriel cheerfully clapped his hands together. “I sure Az– I’m sure _our agent_," he corrected, with an attempt at secrecy, "has wonderful plans for this demon. We’ll check up and have a word with him next.”

Sandalphon sniffed. “Bit of a sloppy job on the manacles. Can barely smell a blessing on them at all. And no circle.”

“Let’s not be too critical. Still, a bit of a boost should help.”

Gabriel clapped his hands again, and Crowley winced with pain as blessing shot through the manacles, and a restraining circle glimmered into existence, bright and pure, around his feet. The bastards… He could feel his power draining slowly away.

“We’ll see you soon, demon. Or not.” And they shimmered away.

Crowley cursed Gabriel, Sandalphon, himself and Aziraphale up down, backwards and forwards.

“Such language.”

Crowley looked up into a grinning face full of teeth and sparkling scales.

“Surprise performance review!” crooned Dagon. “Well, well, looking around this room, I think it’s safe to say you’re failing. I’ll check back in tomorrow.” They made a mark on their clipboard, and vanished in a splash of seawater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) According to the Book of Miracles, Belgium in 1533 experienced five days of being passed over by flying dragons of all sizes.
> 
> 2) The 1176 bardic competition held in the grounds of Cardigan Castle is sometimes referred to as the first eisteddfod. The first prizes for poetry and music were chairs, which was a great honour at the time.
> 
> 3) If you’re wondering why I’ve been uncharacteristically unproductive and behind on reading and comments as well, I have been insanely busy and I am more or less on hiatus until when my Big Bang fic is due. See you there? But I couldn't resist my sweet Pirate King. I haven't forgotten the "Aziraphale summons Dagon" fic either.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my sunshine. Come say hi. :)


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